Monday, December 26, 2011

Off the ropes.

So I'm done with all this pain that I kept.
Like a boxer whose been knocked down and lost his step.

There's one thing that I know.
Somewhere I lost my hope.
I've been wasting so much time.
So I am standing up, and I am screaming out,
That there is love inside, oh there is love.
 I've been fighting life on my knees, (Over and over)
I'm standing up above the ropes so I can see.
Champagne - Senses Fail.

Boxing day. A little shopping anyone? It is definitely good for the economy, but will a little help? I think it's a bit like a prize fighter. He's been fighting a losing battle for so long, and he's exhausted but he can't toss it in now. Leaning on the ropes for support until it's time to... well you either bounce back or TKO. So what's going to happen?Time will tell that particular story. Is sometimes winning losing or losing winning? I'll let you decide. enjoy the story. kisses. m.


Swing. Dip. Sway. Spinning around. Edging closer and closer. Dancing amidst a sea of faces. Deadly Tango climbs and retreats. Quiet. Crescendo. Violence building and intensifying. Flesh meets flesh in a dangerous combination. No restraint. No control. Man vs. Man in an all out battle of the brawn. Only the strong shall survive.

Fight Night. Bareknuckle. Round Two. No holds barred. Crowd’s barely warming up to the violence. O’Malley vs. Callahan. O’Malley’s taking a beating. Swing. Duck. No Luck. Callahan has lightning fast reflexes. Speed of his blow is quick and powerful. Too fast for O’Malley to avoid. Not only is he one step ahead of his opponent, he’s waiting for O’Malley’s head to make contact with his knuckles. Enough force behind his hand to separate the flesh from the bone.

The morning edition labeled last night’s event a barbaric blood sport with the finesse of a roman death match. Man’s brain knocked loose from his skull. Face pummeled beyond recognition. Meat Locker style. Barbarians in a cage. No better than fighting in the street. In a ring made of rope. No gloves. No shoes. Bareknuckle. Nothing dirty. May the best man win... Stay ALIVE. The price of victory means you may get to keep your life.

Occasionally O’Malley tosses a good one out. Callahan definitely has a beaten ego. His pretty face can’t take anymore. Although artificial these bloody war wounds swell profusely almost blindly the gladiator amidst battle. It’s hand to hand combat as swing by swing, knuckle meets cheek bone. Cracking. Splitting. Drawing Blood.

Fights are never exclusive. But this event was open only to a select few. The police were instructed to keep out any riff-raff. Above all no women and children. A couple of unscrupulous newsmen bought their way in and remained hidden among the crowd. But only the elite and wealthiest of men, including the town politicians, all handpicked by the mayor were invited. Rumor has it that the mayor was sitting front row center when O’Malley got his blocked knocked off. The entire event was sanctioned by City Hall and the mayor himself saw to every last detail personally. A handful of dancing girls, not a lady among them, were brought in to keep the men entertained between the rounds. The mad men running games were there taking bets. Swearing the odds to favor O’Malley as they gobbled up the wealth. All proceeds going to finance his next mayoral campaign among other activities.

Left. Right. Feet keep dancing. Clutching. Falling. Arms continue swinging. Bleeding knuckles. Crimson stains covering bruised bodies. Blood spilling from broken mouths. Eyes swelled shut. Broken jawbone. Dislocated nose with the bend so far over the face no longer has meaning. Flesh-made Picasso from the Red period. O’Malley limps along at a steady pace. Round four. Callahan isn’t letting up. Down. Down. Up. Up. Every jab has a connection. O’Malley isn’t returning the same intensity. Ribs. Cracked. Kidneys. Bruised. Harder. Faster. Swaying and teetering, O’Malley’s steps are growing clumsy until he can’t help it. Weakening he stumbles back and springs forward into the arms of the enemy.

Callahan begins to see his opening. At once he’s going to work on O’Malley’s head. Blow after agonizing blow. Until the final… One. Two. BAM! And it’s as if you can almost see the instant when his brain snaps clean from his skull. Severing the mind from the body. From top to bottom disconnected. Eyes’ rolling back into his head at the same moment his head juts back a little too far. Blood cascading across the room and spilling on the floor beneath the battle as his body follows in a graceful collapse. A resounding pound vibrates gently across the floor. The crowd surrounding goes silent followed by a wild thunderous roar. They can’t get enough. A man is dead, brut force style and they want more. Flesh destroying flesh. Pulverizing. There’s a winner. Callahan. At what cost? Cannibalizing upon itself the crowd pushes forward, surrounding the champ. Shake the hand of a cold blooded killer.

The doctor’s said they’d never seen anything like it. Brain stem severed from the spinal cord. Brain completely loose inside of the skull; Rattling about like a peanut in a shell. Violence makes national headlines. An underground sensation. Newspapers report an event of mass hysteria like none seen before. Man beaten to death while nearly a hundred people watched and did nothing to stop it. Paying to see his suffering. Getting a sick perverse pleasure out of his demise. Their Pleasure. His Suffering. Life. Death.

No comments:

Post a Comment